


Back to Islamabad

by walztutu



Category: Homeland
Genre: Aasar Khan - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walztutu/pseuds/walztutu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look ahead at season 5 of Homeland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to Islamabad

Quinn told me that he was seeing a German analyst.  


“For a month now,” he added.  


“Good. I think…we all think you needed some help. For a while now. No, make that a long time already.”  


He squinted his eyes. “Wait! You think I’m nuts?”  


I ignored his suggestion. “Where did you find him?”  


“Why do you think my analyst is a man?”  


Her name was Tinka Lotte Webermann and Peter told me she was a genius who also attended the university of California in Santa Cruz. He said, “She’s smoking!” and I thought that they must have talked a lot about their reefer days.  


He caught my scowl. “Lighten up, Carrie. I mean of course that she’s gorgeous! And very funny. You should see the impression she does of a drunk Iggy Azalea.”  


“Jeesh, isn’t that distracting!” I said. “I didn’t know that psychiatrists were that in aware of popular culture.”  


It wasn’t until he told me that she was very Freudian indeed and laughed his infamous dying dolphin laugh that I realized he wasn’t in therapy at all, but that Tinka Lotte was his new girlfriend.  


“Hilarious!” I hummed, but it was, really, hilarious to hear his hicuppy laughter again as well as a great relief. It had been three months since we had seen each other.  


Then the microwaves dinged and he rose to pull out a mac and cheese dinner. He impatiently picked at the plastic covering, burned his thumb, muttered something with goddamn, and started spooning the orange pasta into his mouth. We were in my office in Islamabad, waiting for DC to wake up. I wanted to ask so many things, but the important questions seemed to get stuck in my throat. So I just wondered out loud how he met his analyst girlfriend.  


He told me, “Your buddy Khan referred her. Would you believe it?”  


Then he got distracted talking about the polo match where he had spotted Khan, how they had a Pimm’s cup at the club afterwards and discovered they shared a love for driving fast cars, dating smart women, and spooning insurgents eyeballs out.  


“I’ve misjudged the guy,” said Quinn. “A nice fellow, really. He invited me to a party at his house two weeks after. Tons of people from the embassies were there. Tinka, too.”  


He tossed the plastic spoon, the macaroni tray, and his soda with perfect arcs into the trash can.  


“Funny now that I think of it. He had his arm around her when he introduced me to her. Think our swarthy guy had a little crush on her.”  


I said nothing. I’ve always had a little crush on that swarthy guy.


End file.
